


Lady In Red

by BlueSkyFirefly



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 17:18:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5879179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSkyFirefly/pseuds/BlueSkyFirefly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young Theresa May goes to the Prime Minister for advice on getting into politics, and ends up getting into things she could never have imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lady In Red

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fraufi666](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraufi666/gifts).



> This is completely fictional. The idea came from a conversation with a friend about how similar the two women are in sense of style, and spiralled into... whatever this is. I have a great deal of admiration and respect for both women and this is not intended to disrespect them or imply that any of this ever happened.

She felt her legs shaking with nerves as she waited in the tiny waiting room of the office. If she was truly honest with herself, she never thought she’d actually get this far, but as a young secretary around the same age as her opened the door and smiled at her she realised it was too late to turn and run back out the door.

“Are you Theresa May?” asked the secretary in a saccharine sweet voice. Theresa smiled and nodded, unable to do much else. The secretary waved her into the office. “Mrs Thatcher will see you now.”

Theresa silently cursed her nerves as her shaky legs caused her to stumble over her own feet while walking to the office door, and cursed herself for ever thinking this was a good idea. She mumbled a thank you to the secretary, and stepped inside.

Mrs. Thatcher stood behind her desk, a hint of a smile on her lips, hands clasped in front of her. She was the same height as Theresa, perhaps even a few centimetres shorter, which took the younger woman by surprise. Somehow she’d always seemed ten feet tall, maybe it was the power, the dominant air, the apparent invincibility.

“Hello, Prime Minister,” said Theresa, surprising even herself at the level of calm she managed to maintain in her voice.

Thatcher smiled wryly, obviously seeing through Theresa’s facade. “Hello, Mrs. May. I’ve been told you want to get into politics?”

Theresa nodded. “Yes, Prime Minister. I have run for several seats, but it never seems to work out. I thought I should, um, talk to someone with experience, who I admire and um, I..”

She swallowed hard as Thatcher walked from behind her desk and slowly approached her. “Well, I know you’re familiar with the party so we can talk actual politics later, there are some things you have to work on if you want to get elected. First of all, you’ll have to stop being bloody terrified of the Prime Minister. That wouldn’t do much good in, well, Prime Minister’s Questions. You know, I don’t like it when people shy away from me. I like some attitude, I like argument, I like debate. Quite apart from that, we need to talk about your... questionable fashion sense.”

Suddenly, the nerves dissipated and were replaced by an indignant sense of irritation. Who did this woman think she was?

“Excuse me?” squeaked Theresa in a much less aggressive voice than she’d intended.

Thatcher plucked at Theresa’s blouse, a light green and pink contraption that frankly was giving the Prime Minister a headache. “I said, we need to talk about this.”

Theresa looked down and felt her cheeks flush.

“Look, it doesn’t matter to me how you dress, or what you do. But the fact is, as a politician, and dare I say especially as a female politician, you have to present yourself well.”

“Alright, alright,” sighed Theresa. “What would you suggest?”

Thatcher turned on her heel and walked back to the desk, shuffled some papers that obviously belonged to the usual occupant of the office then put on her glasses and looked at a page in what Theresa assumed was her diary.

“I’m only in this area for today, heading back to Westminster late tonight. More importantly, I don’t have any more meetings today, you were my last one. Why don’t you come back with me to my hotel? We can talk there, more privately. Denis is still at Number 10, so you needn’t worry about him barging in.”

Theresa couldn’t believe her ears. Come back to the Prime Minister’s hotel room? “I, um, I.. yes, of course,” she stammered, mentally screaming at herself for making a fool of herself once again.

Thatcher collected her things and wrapped a cornflower blue silk scarf around her neck, before coming once again from behind the desk and towards a trembling May. “Do you want me to lock you in here or something? Come on,” she said, sounding somewhat exasperated. Theresa apologised and left the office, the Prime Minister immediately behind her.

They left in a chauffeur driven car – this is it, a taste of what I can have one day, thought Theresa – and ten minutes of silence later arrived at the hotel.

\--

Thatcher led Theresa to her room, and let her in. As she walked in, she caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror and realised for the first time quite how differently she was dressed to the immaculate Prime Minister. There was no time to deliberate it, though, as the older woman led her to a small two-seated couch at the other side of the room with a firm arm around her. She sat down, expecting Thatcher to do the same, but Thatcher remained standing.

“Do you want some wine?” she asked, gesturing to the dresser where a full bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon stood. “You won’t be driving today, so don’t worry about that. You’ll be driven home later.”

Theresa nodded. “I don’t drink much, but alright,” she smiled.

Thatcher poured them both a glass of wine before sitting down next to Theresa. They talked about politics, about Theresa’s ambitions and Thatcher’s own achievements, and before they knew it the bottle was empty and both women more relaxed.

“So.. you um, wanted to talk about my clothes?” asked Theresa awkwardly.

“Of course I do, my dear. They are dreadful,” sighed the Prime Minister.

Theresa took a deep breath, trying to avoid losing her temper with Thatcher. “What do you suggest I wear?” she asked, trying her best not to sound annoyed.

Thatcher jumped to her feet and walked over to the wardrobe. She opened it to reveal four pristine suit covers, and checked each one before pulling one out. “Here, try this. It should fit you,” she said, smiling at Theresa for the first time.

“Are you sure?” gasped Theresa, struggling to comprehend the fact that she was being invited to wear her idol’s clothes.

“You came to see me for help getting into politics. I’m helping you in every way I can. Yes, I am sure.”

Theresa could no longer suppress the huge smile that spread across her beautiful face as she unzipped the suit cover to reveal a red skirt suit with a white pussy-bow blouse. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “Shall I change in the bathroom?”

“You most certainly shan’t change in the bathroom!” cried Thatcher. “You’re not throwing my clothes all over the bathroom. You can change right here.”

Theresa giggled nervously and flushed almost the same scarlet shade as the dress, before undoing the top button of her blouse. Upon looking up and finding Thatcher still looking at her, she clutched the fabric together again. “Prime Minister, aren’t you going to.. well, turn around or something?” she asked, looking at the floor.

The Prime Minister stepped closer to Theresa. “I think it’s about time you call me Maggie. Margaret, at least. And haven’t you heard?” she took another step, her body now almost touching Theresa’s. “The lady’s not for turning.”

Theresa chuckled lightly at the joke, then her breath was taken from her when Thatcher- Margaret – pulled her hand away from the silky fabric of her blouse, allowing it to fall open, then unbuttoned the next button.

“What are you doing?!” gasped Theresa when she regained her breath.

“Undressing you,” replied Margaret with an almost bored nonchalance.

Theresa took a step back and unbuttoned her blouse herself, before taking it off and laying it neatly across the arm of the sofa. She stood in her white lace bra and black trousers, but in front of the unrelenting gaze of those beautiful eyes opposite her, she felt positively naked.

Her hands wandered to the button of her trousers, and against all her better judgement she unbuttoned them and let them fall over her curvy, white lace clad hips to the floor, stepping out of them and her shoes.

“Now why can’t you dress as nicely as that on the outside?” smirked Margaret, no longer even pretending to try to hide the fact she was looking at Theresa.

“I bet you’re the opposite,” growled Theresa, emboldened by the alcohol and in some way hoping to provoke Thatcher. “Pristinely dressed, but underneath there’s just old greying knickers from the market.”

Margaret simply smiled. “I underestimated you, there is some fight in you after all. I must say, though, you are terribly mistaken, and most welcome to prove yourself wrong.”

Theresa’s jaw dropped. “What do you mean? You can’t possibly be saying..”

“You’re welcome to  undress me too, if it makes you feel better. That is what I’m saying, Theresa. Otherwise, try on the bloody suit before I undress myself. I pride myself on my self control, but there is a limit, and you standing there in your lingerie is very close to it.”

Theresa’s mind was spinning. In what way was she testing Thatcher’s- Margaret’s – self control? Surely she couldn’t be saying what she appeared to be saying?

Theresa stepped forward, towards Margaret, and gingerly pulled the scarf from around her neck, throwing it onto the bed. When the older woman didn’t protest, she moved down to unbutton her jacket and removed that too, hanging it over the chair on the dresser. Her hands began to shake and her movements became more frantic as she unbuttoned Margaret’s blouse, revealing a surprisingly impressive bust in a beautiful pale pink satin bra with white lace around the edges.

“Wow..” she breathed softly before she could stop herself.

Margaret unfastened the remaining buttons and threw the blouse on top of the jacket as Theresa unzipped her skirt. It fell, revealing stockings and panties that matched the bra, and Theresa  involuntarily let out a soft moan.

“Are you alright?” asked Margaret, and Theresa nodded, dying to say that she was more than alright. She’d never even considered that a woman could be attractive in that way, but the Prime Minister, standing before her in lingerie, stockings and high heels was almost unbearably beautiful.

“Lie on the bed, Theresa,” said Margaret in a low, commanding voice. Theresa pointed at the suit cover, still containing the clothes she was supposed to try on, as if to say that she couldn’t get onto the bed without disturbing it. Margaret looked into her eyes with an intense, unblinking gaze as she picked up the clothes and put them aside.

“If you are absolutely sure that you want this, lie on the bed, Theresa.”

Theresa was unsure of what exactly “this” was, but she knew she wanted it. She crawled onto the bed on all fours, then rolled onto her back. Margaret snatched the blue silk scarf she had been wearing earlier from the edge of the bed and approached Theresa, who lay quivering with anticipation.

“Your hands,” she commanded, and Theresa immediately obliged, holding out both of her hands. Thatcher tied them together with a tight but comfortable knot, then pulled them back behind Theresa’s head and fastened them to the ornate headboard.

The feeling of the silk against her skin, the cold iron bars stopping her from going anywhere while the beautiful Iron Lady watched her intently was undeniably exciting to Theresa. She pressed her thighs together, looking into Thatcher’s striking eyes with what can only be described as wanton lust.

Thatcher approached her slowly and bowed her head to kiss her on the lips, entwining a slender hand in the other woman’s tousled brown hair. Theresa reciprocated the kiss, with her tongue darting across the Prime Minister’s lips, and the two women began kissing passionately, each tasting red wine on the other’s lips, each wanting the other more by the second.

Margaret felt herself losing control, and immediately regained it by tightening her grip on the silky soft hair in her hand, scraping her nails gently up Theresa’s thigh and biting her bottom lip firmly before pulling away.  “I know you want me desperately, and don’t worry. I’m going to pleasure you, my dear. But you remain under my control – you stay tied exactly as you are now, and you are not allowed to climax until I say you can. Do you understand?”

She seemed calm and cold, but underneath the harsh exterior her mind was racing – why was she doing this? To a woman nonetheless, what was she thinking? She realised she didn’t know, but nor did she care, as she pulled the soft white lace over Theresa’s hips, all the way down until she had them in her hand. She placed them on the bed next to Theresa as she positioned herself between her porcelain thighs.

She kissed her thighs before moving in to flick her tongue exactly where Theresa wanted it. “Yes, Prime Minister!” gasped Theresa, bucking her hips towards Thatcher.

The Prime Minister smiled up at Theresa with all the smugness of a cat that got the cream. She felt herself growing wetter as she realised that she’d never been called Prime Minister in bed before, but she liked it. She used her fingers to spread Theresa’s dusky pink lips open, and swirled her tongue around the swollen, sensitive clit, making Theresa cry out.

She gripped the younger woman’s hips hard, knowing she would leave bruises and basking in the beauty of the thought of this flawless body being marked by her, a physical reminder for Theresa that for that day, she had belonged to Margaret Thatcher entirely.

She used her tongue to please Theresa in ways Theresa had never known were possible, making her writhe and moan, but as soon as she came too close to orgasm, Thatcher stopped. Soon, the desperate Theresa began to beg.

“Please let me come..” she whimpered as Thatcher continued to give and take away the mind-blowing pleasure Theresa craved.

Thatcher responded only by taking Theresa’s own wet, musky panties and gently pushing them into her mouth. “I’ve had enough of your pretty little voice for now,” she growled. “I told you, I decide when you climax.”

She continued teasing Theresa for what seemed like forever, then, finally satisfied that Theresa was desperate enough, she snatched the panties out of her mouth. “Do you want to come for me, Theresa?” she purred.

“Yes! Oh fuck, Maggie please,” cried Theresa.

Thatcher kissed her hip bone lightly. “Very well,” she said, her voice dripping with seduction and lust. “You may.”

She positioned herself again and began to pleasure Theresa, and this time she didn’t stop. She slid two fingers inside her and massaged every spot that made Theresa scream, all the while licking her unrelentingly. Theresa fought against her wrist ties as she came over and over. Her cries and screams of ecstasy filled the room in a beautiful crescendo, then died down as she lay, whimpering and shaking on the bed.

Margaret crawled up on top of her and kissed her. She tasted of Theresa, musky and sweet, and Theresa didn’t mind at all. As they kissed, Margaret swiftly untied the scarf from around Theresa’s wrists, and the beautiful younger Tory wasted no time in wrapping her arms around the Prime Minister’s perfect body.

Theresa’s wandering hands soon found Margaret’s bra strap, and she quickly unfastened it. Margaret sat up, straddling her lover, and allowed her to remove her bra completely. As her breasts fell free, Theresa took a sharp intake of breath. They were perfect, especially for a woman of Margaret’s age, and Theresa wanted nothing more than to take one of the beautiful dark pink nipples in her mouth.

She gave into her desires, pulling Maggie back down on top of her and rolling her onto her back before gently sucking on her breasts, alternating between them until both nipples were erect and the PM’s breathing considerably heavier.

Theresa began to move lower, leaving a trail of kisses from Margaret’s breasts down between her ribcage, over her belly button, finally stopping at the waistband of her pretty pink panties.

Theresa swallowed hard. “I.. I want to do to you what you did to me,” she admitted, “but I’ve never done that before.”

Maggie let out a light laugh. “Are you implying that I had?” Theresa’s eyes widened.

“I’d never even kissed another woman until today,” she said, a hint of amusement in her voice. “I just know what I like, so I did it to you. And you seemed to like it too!”

Theresa smiled, more sure of herself knowing that Thatcher wasn’t any more experienced than she, and pushed the other woman’s legs up to remove her panties.

She didn’t tease like Thatcher had done to her, she had no intention of making the Prime Minister wait. She just wanted to please her. She sighed as she slid her finger inside her, noticing that she was warm and tight, and found herself wondering how she tasted.

She soon found out, as Margaret placed a firm hand on the back of her head and pushed her closer. She closed her eyes and gently licked, eliciting a low, soft moan.

This encouraged Theresa, who started to mimic the things Maggie had done to her. Soon, she had the Prime Minister moaning her name and grasping at the sheet.

She briefly considered pulling away to show her how it felt, but her own desperation to make Thatcher come took over and she continued pleasuring her with her fingers and tongue until she reached the point of no return.

Her back arched as she moaned, biting her lip hard to stop herself screaming out, and twisted and tore at the sheet in her hands so hard that anything less than the Egyptian cotton she’d insisted on would have ripped.

As she came down from her climax, Theresa crawled up to lie beside her and Maggie instinctively turned to cuddle her. Their lips touched and they shared feather light kisses until Theresa fell asleep in Maggie’s arms. Maggie thought about waking her but felt her own eyes fluttering to a close, and gave in to sleep herself.

\--

Maggie was awoken by a frantic Theresa shaking her. “Margaret? Margaret, wake up,” she hissed as the Prime Minister opened her eyes, looking and feeling very confused.

“Theresa, what the devil is happening? What’s wrong?” she groaned as she sat up in bed, pulling the sheet up with her to cover her.

“We fell asleep after we.. well you know what happened, but we fell asleep and I don’t know what time it is. You’re supposed to be going back to Westminster, and I’m supposed to be home with Philip!”

“Philip? Is that your husband? He’s a very lucky man,” smiled Thatcher. Theresa smiled coyly, then remembered what she’d wanted in the first place.

“Thank you, Maggie. Denis is very fortunate too, if I may say so. But please, what time is it?”

Maggie stood up, draped in the white top sheet, reminiscent, in Theresa’s eyes, of a Greek goddess, and crossed the room to her handbag. She pulled out a small pocket watch, opened it and smiled. “It’s only 5pm, my dear,” she told Theresa. “We were barely asleep an hour. It’s fine.”

Theresa smiled back, and beckoned the older woman back over to the bed. Maggie approached the bed again, but only to brush the hair out of Theresa’s face and lightly kiss her forehead before walking away again. “We should get dressed,” she explained. “It’s not too long before we should be leaving back to Westminster, so someone could come to the door at any time. Not that it would bother me not to open the door, but I would rather not cause confusion.”

Theresa nodded, understanding. “Of course,” she said, and jumped off the bed to get dressed too.

She put on her underwear while Maggie watched her silently, a satisfied smile on her beautiful face as she recognised that the curvy body before her had just hours ago been shaking before her in the throes of passion.  But when she reached for her trousers, Maggie smacked her hand away.

“Put on the outfit I showed you. You may keep it if you like it,” she said.

“Keep it? But Mrs. Thatcher-“

“Mrs. Thatcher? Really? I thought we were far beyond first name terms, Theresa. And I won’t hear another word - I have many suits, and if I find I miss that one I can have one exactly like it by morning.”

Theresa gingerly pulled the clothes from the bag and put them on. They clung to her breasts and hips, not too much, but enough to accentuate the fact that her body was curvier than Maggie’s slender frame, and upon looking in the mirror Theresa saw a smile lighting up her face. She looked even more beautiful, and much more like she thought a politician should.

Maggie walked up behind Theresa and wrapped her arms around her waist. “Red really is your colour, my dear,” she murmured, and Theresa spun around to hug her tight.

Minutes later, as Maggie had predicted, there was a sharp knock at the door. Both women adjusted their hair in the mirror, Maggie applied a fresh coat of lipstick and went to answer it.  As the door opened to reveal a tall man in a smart suit, presumably an aide, Theresa felt her heart sink.

She hated that she was so disappointed, but there was no denying that she did not want the Prime Minister to leave, she had wanted to spend more time with her, even if it was just talking about politics, or even sitting in silence while Maggie did paperwork, watching the concentration on her face, the elegant movements of her hands, listening to the scratch of her pen on paper, just to know she was still there- “THERESA!”

Theresa jumped, then felt her cheeks flush as she realised she had been lost in her daydream.

Maggie sighed. “I asked if you wish to come back to Westminster with me, just for tonight,” she repeated.

Theresa thought about it. At first, she wanted to agree, to go back to Downing Street with the most beautiful and most powerful woman in the country, spend more time with her and learn more about politics, but suddenly her common sense kicked in. She’d have to hide her feelings for Maggie, as if it didn’t hurt and confuse her enough that she even had feelings for Maggie, lie to Philip about why she was going, lie to _herself_ about why she was going.. and watch the woman who took her breath, and possibly her heart, be loved by her husband. She shook her head almost undetectably, before making up her mind more firmly and stating, “No, thank you. I must be getting home soon.”

“Very well,” smiled Maggie. “Did you drive here?”

“No, my husband has the car today. I got the train, I’ll go back to the station and buy a ticket home,” said Theresa.

Maggie shook her head, looking almost offended. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “I told you earlier that I shall take care of it. You’ll come with me and I will have my driver drop you off at home.”

Theresa agreed, a small part of her hoping it was an elaborate ruse, that Thatcher had no intention of taking her home and that she would be dragged to Downing Street. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, Theresa never did decide which, that was not the case, and she was taken home. She kissed Maggie one last time on the lips, and got out of the car.

\--

Theresa followed all of the advice Maggie had given her, and it paid off. She was eventually elected to Parliament as the MP for Maidenhead, but by that time Hague was leader, having replaced Major, and the party was in opposition, meaning she never got to spend much time with the woman who had taught her so much in so many ways.

They saw each other in the corridors of the Palace of Westminster, and at conferences and party gatherings, but both knew that long gone were the days of stolen kisses and shared clothing.

However, many years later, at a state dinner and dance, Theresa lifted her glass and took a sip of red wine. She recognised it instantly as Cabernet Sauvignon, and as she closed her eyes, she was back in that room.

She fought hard to hold back tears as she remembered how she had felt then, and still felt now. She thought of the once strikingly beautiful Thatcher, now a frail, white haired widow recovering from a broken arm, and wondered how things could have been.

Theresa clutched at the fabric of her crimson red dress as Maggie’s words echoed in her mind: “Red really is your colour, my dear.”

“Theresa, are you okay?” whispered the woman next to her.

Theresa took a deep breath and opened her eyes. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

Deep inside, she wasn’t sure if that was true, but she knew she couldn’t explain. After all, as Maggie would have said, to wear your heart on your sleeve isn’t a very good plan. You should wear it on the inside, where it functions best.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, this was a work of absolute fiction. 
> 
> "To wear your heart on your sleeve isn't a very good plan, you should wear it on the inside, where it functions best" is a real Margaret Thatcher quote, I do not own it.


End file.
